


weigh it out

by robokittens



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Masturbation, Mildly Dubious Consent, Pining, Sleepy Kisses, canon-typical alcohol use, or maybe not mildly idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-04
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-11 15:49:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5632162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/robokittens/pseuds/robokittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack shakes Bittle's shoulder again. It's a little more roughly than he'd meant to, but Bittle's eyes blink open. His voice is a slow, sleepy mumble when he says Jack's name. He smiles, and Jack feels a sinking weight in the pit of his stomach, a breath caught in his throat. Bittle sleep-tousled and looking fondly at Jack like this, it's — </p>
<p>It's nothing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	weigh it out

**Author's Note:**

> this basically has no redeeming value, but i like it so i'm posting it anyway. 
> 
> i'm sorry, jack zimmermann, that i keep writing you being morally questionable; i love you i swear. (see end notes for dubcon info)

"Well fuck me, that's just about the cutest thing I ever did see."

Shitty's leaning over Jack, chin pointy against his shoulder, arms snaking around his waist. Jack can feel the cold, damp condensation from Shitty's beer bottle leaking through his own t-shirt. He doesn't even flinch, half because he's used to Shitty's shit by now, and half because he's completely transfixed by the image in front of him: Bittle, curled up on the green couch, clutching an XBox controller like it's a teddy bear. There's no game running; the TV isn't even on.

One of Bittle's legs kicks out, just a little, before he curls up again. It is, in fact, just about the cutest thing Jack has ever seen.

Jack grins. "What the hell did you give him to drink, Shits? I've never even seen him sit on the couch before."

Shitty scoffs, breath warm against the side of Jack's neck. "Fuckin' low, brah, accusing me like that. Bitty drank only of his own volition."

He shifts behind Jack, one arm moving from around his waist; Jack's about 90% sure that Shitty's not actually copping a feel, but it's hard to tell. After a moment, though, Shitty's phone is extracted from his front pocket, and there are no hands anywhere in the vicinity of Jack's ass. Shitty takes a picture, two, three.

"Perfect!" he declares, looking through them. "Art! Where's your camera, Jacky-boy? I bet you could take a better one."

"Can't improve on perfection," Jack says dryly. He shakes Shitty off. "I'm gonna get him up to bed."

He crouches down next to the couch, and gently extracts the controller from Bittle's hands. Bittle whimpers, a small sound, but it sounds loud to Jack even through the noise of the living room.

It's not a party, not really; it's certainly not a kegster. It's just the team, and some people the team knows, and some people those people know — well, it's not a party they'd planned to throw, or anything. There's fewer than thirty non-SMH people in the Haus, probably. Jack could name at least most of them, if he had to.

But it's enough people that Jack knows Bittle would be mortified if he realized he'd fallen asleep in front of them all. Shitty's followed Jack around to the front of the couch and is cooing things like _precious_ and _fuckin' angelic_ , and it's really just Jack's responsibility as captain to stop this humiliation before it gets too far out of hand.

"Bittle," he says gruffly.

Bittle doesn't stir.

"Bittle," he says again, louder. Bittle's nose wrinkles, but he otherwise doesn't respond. Jack sighs.

"Bittle, get up. C'mon." He reaches over and shakes Bittle's shoulder. Bittle curls up tighter in response, arms clutching the ghost of the XBox controller tighter. "C'mon," Jack says again.

"You're gonna have to carry him, bro," Shitty says. He sounds positively delighted by the idea.

Jack shakes Bittle's shoulder again. It's a little more roughly than he'd meant to, but Bittle's eyes blink open. His voice is a slow, sleepy mumble when he says Jack's name. He smiles, and Jack feels a sinking weight in the pit of his stomach, a breath caught in his throat. Bittle sleep-tousled and looking fondly at Jack like this, it's — 

It's nothing.

"Wake up," Jack says, rocking back on his heels. His realizes his hand is still on Bittle's shoulder, and pulls it away quickly. "You fell asleep on the couch."

Bittle blinks. He wrinkles his nose again. He's still smiling. "Gross," he says, matter of factly.

Jack hadn't even noticed Shitty crouching down next to him until he speaks: "A'ight, Bits baby. Beer or bed?"

Jack turns, ready to chastise Shitty for even suggesting more beer, so it's only out of the corner of his eye that he catches the flash of Bittle's tongue as he yawns. The words die in his throat.

"Bed please," Bittle says, and closes his eyes again.

Jack looks at Shitty. Shitty shrugs. Jack sighs.

"So help me, Bittle, I will carry you if you don't get up." 

He's almost sure he can carry Bittle up the stairs. It would be easier if he could just throw Bittle over his shoulder and haul him that way — which would have the advantage of waking him up, almost definitely. And then maybe he wouldn't have to carry him at all. But it seems like a rude way to carry someone, especially someone who's probably due for a real beaut of a hangover as it is.

Bittle doesn't respond. Next to Jack, Shitty shrugs.

He gets his hands under Bittle, one under his knees and one around his back, and slowly straightens up. Bittle might be the smallest member of the team, but he's not _light_ , and Shitty has to help Jack balance as he stands back up.

"I take it back," Shitty says, stepping back and surveying the scene in front of him with a look of delight. " _This_ is the cutest fuckin' thing I ever did see."

Bittle tucks his head into Jack's chest and makes a small, sleepy sound. Jack can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks; he hopes it's too dark for Shitty to see. He shifts his weight, pulling Bittle tighter against him.

"Fuck off," he says, a moment too late. Shitty grins at him, and raises his beer bottle in a salute.

He somehow makes it to the stairs with almost no difficulty, his teammates peeling off with little more than fond laughter when they see his burden, but actually facing the stairs gives him pause. He jostles Bittle in his arms. "Hey, Bittle," he whispers, then again, louder.

Bittle moves just enough to wrap his arms around Jack's neck and hold on tighter. Jack's heart feels like it's about to beat out of his chest, and he hopes that Bittle can't feel it. He hopes Bittle is too drunk, too asleep, to remember any of this tomorrow.

The new position makes it easier for Jack to carry him up the stairs, anyway.

There's a moment where Jack's afraid that Bittle's door will be locked, that he'll have to search through Bittle's pockets to find his key. That he won't be able to find it at all, will have to unlock his own door and lay Bittle down in his own bed. That he'd go back to the party, blood rushing in his ears, Bittle tucked sweet and soft under Jack's comforter, his head on Jack's pillow, his sleepy breath fanning across Jack's sheets.

Bittle's door is unlocked. 

Jack has to duck awkwardly to get a hand on the knob without dumping Bittle, but he manages, and the knob turns easily within his grasp. He hip checks the door open.

It strikes Jack sometimes how different the room looks from when Johnson had lived there — Johnson had favored a more minimal decorating scheme, pucks and a few pennants and what he'd called "irrelevant background decoration;" it was nothing like Bittle's cheerful curtains and Beyonce posters and the stuffed rabbit everyone pretends not to know he has.

The stuffed rabbit is sitting on top of Bittle's pillows. Jack's going to end up depositing Bittle right on top of it, probably. 

He crouches down carefully. Bittle's arms tighten around his neck. Jack sets Bittle down as lightly as he can. He's poised over Bittle, Bittle's arms around his neck, Bittle's eyes closed and his mouth lax and his breath sweet on Jack's face; whatever he'd been drinking, it had been fruity. Jack is so, so aware of every inch of his body, in a way he just isn't when he's not on the ice. He slides his arm out, slowly, from under Bittle's back. He unhooks his elbow from Bittle's knees.

Bittle's eyes flutter open.

"Jack," he says, happily.

His arms loosen from around Jack's neck and Jack lets out a huge rush of breath. Below him, Bittle laughs sleepily.

"D'j'ou carry me?" he mumbles. "Tha's so. So." He laughs again, and reaches up to pat Jack's cheek.

Jack should stand up. He should tell Bittle good night and excuse himself and shut Bittle's door behind him and go back to the party. He should stand up.

"Yeah," he says, the word strangely thick in his mouth. "I did."

"S'wawesome," Bittle says. His eyes slip shut again. Jack should stand up.

"Good night, Bittle," he says, still crouched next to Bittle's bed. He can still feel the warmth of Bittle's hand on his cheek.

He's finally gathered himself enough to start standing when Bittle says his name again, voice low and rough and sweet. He stops moving, and slowly, he lets himself make eye contact.

"Jack," Bittle says again, and when he reaches out Jack leans in toward him. The first brush of their lips against each other is so light Jack almost doesn't feel it over the electricity that zings through him, over the feel of Bittle's fingers threading through the short hairs at the nape of his neck.

He feels the second kiss. He feels Bittle's tongue dart out to wet his lips, and brush Jack's in the process. He feels the third kiss, and he feels the way Bittle opens up under him, feels the dip of Bittle's mattress under his palms as he leans over Bittle, presses him down.

" _Jack_ ," Bittle says, and he sounds — he sounds so _sleepy_.

Jack pulls away.

He wipes his lips with the back of his wrist. He stands up. He wipes his mouth again.

"Good night, Bittle," he says, and he can hear how stiff he sounds, how formal.

Bittle doesn't seem to notice, just curls up around his stuffed rabbit — when had he even grabbed that thing? — and smiles sleepily up at Jack. His eyes flutter shut. "Night, Jack," he says, and Jack can hear his breathing evening out already.

Christ. Fuck.

He would pull the covers up over Bittle, his hands itch to, but of course Bittle's bed was actually made; the blanket is mussed by the curl of Bittle's form, and where Jack's hands had —

He turns around. The door's still open, _Christ_. He shuts it behind himself quickly.

In the hallway, he can hear the party still going downstairs.

There's no way he's been upstairs for more than a few minutes. He could go back downstairs, endure Shitty's teasing, his knowing looks; he could have the beer he's suddenly craving. 

Jack fishes his key out of his pocket.

He shuts his door, louder than he'd let himself shut Bittle's, and leans against it. He squeezes his eyes shut. He can still hear the party downstairs; he can still hear the even keel of Bittle's breathing. He can hear a rush in his ears, a loud sound that threatens to turn into a panic; he can feel a dull thudding behind his eyelids.

Bittle was _asleep_. Christ, Zimmermann, he thinks. What's wrong with you.

It happened. It happened, and — it didn't happen, Bittle won't remember in the morning and Jack will never mention it, and no one else knows, and —

Jack thunks his head back against the door. He shoves down his sweatpants.

He jerks his cock quickly, almost frantically, and it's barely a minute before he comes. When the wave of his orgasm recedes, there's a pounding building up in the back of his head. He cups his skull, carefully cradling it against the wood, like he can somehow hold off the headache from the outside.

He stares up at the ceiling. He closes his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> dubcon info: jack kisses bitty while bitty is both drunk and barely awake. bitty starts it, if that helps any.
> 
> title from [bright eyes](http://songmeanings.com/songs/view/34491/).


End file.
